Rachel Lindsay - Man of Ice

by Rachel Lindsay

  Abby could not repress a shiver which Miss Bateman saw at once. 'I know it seems a barbarous custom to us,' she said quietly, 'but the Parsees are Zoroastrian and that means they respect all elements of nature, including fire and earth. That's why they cannot pollute the earth with their corpses the way Christians do, nor burn them on funeral pyres like the Hindus.'

  'But surely they needn't have put their—their cemetery and vultures in the middle of the city?' Abby protested.

  'Money speaks loudly.' Giles came back into the conversation. 'The Parsees built Bombay trade and industry. There are only a hundred and fifteen thousand of them in India, which in a country of five hundred million is absolutely negligible, yet they're the leading businessmen and possess the greatest wealth.'

  'Then they can afford to re-site their death house somewhere else.'

  'I'm sure you're right, Miss West. But tradition dies hard, and the Towers of Silence are likely to remain where they are for a long time to come.'

  Pointedly Abby said nothing and focused her attention on the passing scene. They were bowling along the seashore, where block after block of apartments reared into the sky, all of them modern and concrete and totally unlike the embellished Victorian architecture that abounded in the inner regions of the city. People were already taking their evening promenade: coconut hawkers from Kerala in ankle-length white robes; children with begging bowls and the distended bellies of hunger; crowds of young men returning home from a day's work.

  Marine Drive was long and seemingly never-ending, and the bustling throngs only started to diminish as they came towards its end. Here stood the newest built apartment house, looming high into the darkening Bombay sky. The limousine stopped and they emerged from it, breathed in the humid sea air and then entered through sliding glass doors into a world where poverty was not known.

  'The Chandrises built this block,' Miss Bateman explained, 'and they live on the two top floors.'

  'They must have a large family,' Abby exclaimed.

  'All their children are married and no longer live with them!'

  'I thought some children always lived with their parents?'

  'Not in the wealthy families, particularly if they're Westernised. The close-knit unity of family that one finds in the villages doesn't indicate a greater love for each other, but merely force of circumstance. When one is poor, it's cheaper to live together. But the Chandrises only have two sons; both of whom are attached to the U.N. in New York.'

  Wondering how a middle-aged couple could occupy two entire floors of a building such as this, Abby entered the lift which swiftly took them to the top floor.

  'This is their summer entrance,' Miss Bateman explained as they stepped out on to a vast terrace, complete with swimming pool and an elaborately laid out garden. 'During the monsoons one gets out on the floor below, which is covered.'

  'A winter and summer entrance,' Abby grinned. 'I bet they have a his and hers bathroom too!'

  'And a yours and theirs as well!' came the amused rejoinder as Miss Bateman and her nephew led the way towards a cluster of people who parted to allow them to meet the couple who stood in their midst.

  Mr Chandris was a rotund, white-haired man with a sallow complexion and deep-set eyes, and his wife a graceful woman with the same white hair but lighter skin. She wore a white sari of the utmost simplicity, which acted as a foil for the glittering array of diamonds around her throat and dangling from the lobes of her ears. They both spoke perfect English, though with the lilting Welsh accent which so many Indians seemed to have. Then Abby found herself being escorted to the buffet by a black-haired young man with liquid brown eyes who regarded her admiringly as he helped her to a drink.

  He was an accountant named Jay, and worked in one of Mr Chandris's many firms. He was also a cousin of the family and knew most of the guests already present. He pointed out several Indian notabilities to her, including two film stars who were, to Abby's European eyes, overweight and surprisingly ugly.

  There were some hundred people present, but the terrace and living-rooms were so enormous that neither was overcrowded. From time to time, servants in long brocade jackets with sashes at their waists plied them with small bowls of aromatic curry as well as trays of Western-style canapes. There was also a continuous supply of champagne for those who had no religious scruples, and varied fruit juice for those who had.

  Abby glanced at her young escort who was sipping fruit juice. 'Have you never drunk wine?' she asked.

  'I used to do so when I was in England. I got my degree at London University, but now I live with my uncle, and he is a very devout Parsee.'

  'Aren't you?'

  'I am becoming more so.' He smiled and she smiled back, thinking how good-looking he was in his high- collared white tunic with matching tight-fitting trousers. His head was uncovered, but she noticed that many of the men present wore small white caps, and seeing her eyes rest on them he explained that this indicated that the wearer was a member or follower of the Ruling Congress Party. All the Indian women were in saris, the majority of them lavishly embroidered, and there was a mass of jewellery, as there always was among Indian women. Abby, who had felt remarkably different in her own sari, now regretted she was not wearing Western dress, though as she turned to say so to her escort he forestalled her by saying how charming she looked.

  'It is such a compliment to us when a Western woman wears a sari. And you do it so well.'

  'I felt very ungainly for the first few minutes,' she confessed.

  'I can't believe that. You glided across the terrace like a swan.'

  Had the remark come from an Italian or a Frenchman, he would have continued with the compliment, but Indians, Abby knew from what she had seen and read, were far more reserved in their attitude towards women, and treated them with the respect that their European counterparts had long since forgotten. In India, women were considered the centre of the home and family life, and since family life was all-important here, it was natural for them to be revered. It was this reverence that had contributed to the Indian male's acceptance of marriage without love, for he was willing to commit himself for fife to a woman as long as he knew she had been chosen by his parents as being a suitable partner for him.

  'If you are happy in your home, then you will love the woman who makes that home with you,' one of the young guides had explained to Abby on her second day in Delhi. He had been the best guide of them all. Studying law at Delhi University, he was only a guide during the holidays, and had told them that he was perfectly content to marry a girl of his parents' choice, whom he himself would meet for the first time upon their wedding day.

  Abby wondered whether the man beside her would do the same, but thought it overly curious—on such a short acquaintance—to ask him.

  'Would you care for another drink?' Jay enquired.

  'Not for the moment, thanks.'

  He turned to get himself another fruit juice and, as his shoulder moved, she had a clear view of the panelled gold doors of the lift. They slid back and a group of Indians emerged. The two Europeans in their midst caught her eye; not 'so much the man—who was middle-aged and balding—but the woman with him, who was one of the most beautiful creatures Abby had seen. She was tall and slim as a wand, with soft dark hair swinging in a thick satin cloud to touch the edge of her jawline, where the ends swung forward provocatively on to each cheek. Her features had the classical purity Abby always associated with Russian ballerinas and she walked with the same grace too, her body seen to advantage in a simple amber gold dress.

  The colour was exactly the same as Giles Farrow's eyes, and because of it Abby glanced across to where he was standing talking to the Chandrises. As she watched him the European couple came into his line of vision, and he lost colour so sharply that it was visible even from a distance. Even his stance changed, growing so rigid that his flesh might have been stone.

  Swiftly Abby turned her attention to the couple who had just come in. The girl had stopped walking, but o
nly momentarily, for as Abby watched, she started to move in the direction of her host and hostess, and greeted them with a smile before turning to Giles Farrow. He was more in control of himself now, though Abby saw that his hands were clenched by his side.

  Without having to be told, she knew this was his ex-fiancée; the girl who had turned him down because she had been unable to face the prospect of life in small Indian towns. She glanced around at Jay, who had also noticed the newcomers.

  'Who are the Western couple?' she asked.

  'Tony Laughton and his wife. He's an oil tycoon. He and my uncle have many business dealings together. His wife is extremely beautiful, is she not?'

  'Extremely,' Abby said slowly. 'What is her first name?'

  'Victoria. It is appropriate, because she is English!'

  'Victoria,' Abby murmured, and was convinced this was the Vicky of whom Miss Bateman had spoken that morning. Again she looked across to Giles Farrow. He had regained control of himself and was smiling with exactly the right amount of ease, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, the other loosely clasped around a glass tumbler. Unwillingly she gave him full marks for his performance, appreciating the effort it cost him to appear natural. Or had he known his ex-fiancé was coming here tonight? Remembering the stricken look on his face as the girl had entered the room, Abby doubted it. No, her appearance had been a shock to him, but one which he was now managing to hide.

  As Abby continued to look at the group, Miss Bateman joined it. Her eyes met Abby's and she lifted her hand and beckoned her. Smiling an apology to the young Indian at her side, Abby obeyed the command.

  'I would like you to meet the Laughtons,' Miss Bateman said as Abby reached her. 'Vicky is a friend of the family.'

  'Nearly a member of the family,' the dark girl corrected, her mouth curving in a smile that still left her eyes humourless.

  It was apparent from the hard look in them that she was annoyed at being described in this way, and though Miss Bateman looked unaware of it, the slight tensing of her fingers, which were still resting on Abby's arm, gave her away.

  'Well,' she said cheerily, 'as a near member of the family, I'd like you to meet the dear girl who came to my rescue when I was taken ill in Agra.'

  The hardness in Vicky Laughton's eyes remained as they rested on Abby. 'So you were the Good Samaritan?' she drawled. 'And now I hear you're working for Aunt Matty. How clever of you!'

  Abby wasn't sure what to say in reply. She sensed an undercurrent of antagonism in the statement, and wondered what she had done to arouse it. The answer was given immediately, for Vicky Laughton turned her head and looked directly at Giles.

  'You'd better be on your guard, Giles. I think Aunt Matty is matchmaking!'

  'My guard is permanently up,' he said calmly.

  'Do you mean I was the only one who ever got through your defence?'

  Astonished by the girl's cruelty, Abby turned away. But she could still hear Giles' reply, which was measured and devoid of expression.

  'I didn't have any guard up at the time I met you. I erected it afterwards.'

  'Now you've made me feel guilty.' This time the girl did lower her voice, but Abby could still hear what she said. 'Have you forgiven me?' she went on softly.

  'I forgave you immediately. One can't blame a child for doing wrong—if the child has never been taught what is right.'

  Vicky Laughton's exclamation was difficult to define. It was part anger, part exasperation, and with a deliberate movement she turned away. Only then did Giles Farrow move a step in Abby's direction.

  'I hope you're enjoying the party, Miss West?'

  'Very much. It's the first time I've been in an Indian home.'

  Her answer seemed to amuse him, for one side of his mouth tilted. 'This hardly typifies an Indian home. It could be the home of any rich cosmopolitan.'

  Abby looked over his shoulder at the huge living room, with its gay rugs and multi-coloured brass and glass lamps. 'Surely not?' she protested.

  'Kashmiri carpets and mosaic gew-gaws don't make an Indian home,' he replied. 'My own home is more typically Indian than this, and that's bemuse the Maharajah, who owns it, was never influenced by Europe.'

  'Except for the plumbing,' she smiled. 'That's almost American in its proficiency!'

  'Do you consider plumbing an important part of life?'

  'Don't you?'

  'Important but not essential. I've spent too much time in small Indian villages where plumbing didn't exist to believe one can't live without it.'

  'I'm sure one can live,' she agreed. 'But it's a question of the quality of living. There are certain comforts that I consider essential.'

  'I'm sure,' he said sourly. 'You're no different from any other woman.'

  Immediately she knew he was thinking of Vicky Laughton. But since she was not supposed to know about his engagement, nor why it had been broken, she looked at him with pretended innocence. 'I'm not saying I wouldn't be able to rough it; under certain circumstances I would.'

  'What circumstances?' he asked.

  To answer him truthfully and say she would do it if it meant being with someone she loved would make it sound as if she knew about his past; worse, it would make her sound as if she wanted to put herself in a good light with him; and since both these ideas were repugnant to her, she said nothing.

  'You're very easy to read, Miss West,' Giles said into the silence. 'In your romantic mind you can see yourself sharing all sorts of dire hardships with the man of your choice. But when it comes to the reality of life, you'd find civilisation too attractive to give up.'

  'I certainly wouldn't want to give it up permanently. But nor would you. I mean, you're living pretty well now, so why blame others for wanting the same?'

  'Because I have my priorities right. There are other things which have far more meaning for me than plumbing.'

  'And for other people too, Mr Farrow. Since time immemorial, men have gone out into the wilds to bring religion, education, technical benefits, to people less fortunate than themselves. What you're doing isn't so extraordinary.'

  She hadn't meant to say so much, but as always when she was emotionally aroused, her tongue ran away with her. There was no doubt Giles Farrow thought so too, for he looked at her with his all too familiar irritation.

  'I dislike people who jump on a soapbox at the first opportunity,' he said.

  'You mean you dislike anyone who feels strongly enough about something to make a stand!'

  'If you want to put it that way, yes!'

  'Don't you yourself take a stand on things you feel deeply about?'

  He nodded. 'But I don't condemn others if they don't want to do the same. For my part, I don't give a damn what other people do.'

  'Then I'm not surprised that no one—except your aunt—gives a damn what you do!'

  Anger blazed from his eyes, making them glow like those of a tiger in the night. Abby waited for his temper to explode, but she had reckoned without his self- control.

  'I have no need of everyone's good opinion of me, Miss West. As long as I am liked by the few people I respect, I am satisfied. But your good opinion of me doesn't matter.'

  Her eyes stung sharply with tears, and appalled lest he see them, she walked over to the edge of the terrace. Blindly she stared out at the ocean, too high above it to hear the sound of the surf on the sand.

  'Miss West?' Giles Farrow came to stand by her side and, as she backed away from him, he blocked her escape. 'Please forgive me for what I just said. It was unforgivable of me to speak to you like that.'

  'You have been rude to me from the moment we met,' she said in a voice that trembled.

  'But not as rude as I was now,' he said raggedly. 'My only excuse is that… there are things on my mind and I'm on edge. Please accept my apology.'

  'Very well.'

  Only then did she glance at him, and had to tilt her head a long way to do so. He was not as pale as he had been when he had first glimpsed Vicky Laughton, but he had not
yet regained his normal colour and his paleness made him look younger and more vulnerable.

  'It's a pity I have to stay in your home,' she added. 'I'll try to keep out of your way as much as I can.'

  'That isn't necessary.'

  'I want to.'

  He opened his mouth as though to say more, then clamped it shut. 'As you wish,' he murmured, and strode away.

  Abby remained where she was, wishing that Giles

  Farrow did not have the ability to make her dislike him and feel sorry for him at one and the same time. Like a summer storm their quarrel had arisen without any warning, and like a summer storm it had disappeared as quickly as it had come. Yet it had left behind a residue of pain that made her deeply afraid, for she did not want to acknowledge that a man like Giles Farrow had the ability to hurt her. What he made of his life and what he thought of other people was not her concern, nor did it matter to her whether he held her in esteem or contempt. Once she left Bombay she would have no reason to see him. When he returned to England and visited his aunt, she would make sure she was not present, if his visits became too frequent, she would resign her job.

  She turned and saw Giles Farrow standing by the terrace window, his body outlined by the light behind him. He was considerably taller than any of the Indian men present and for this reason alone would have stood out among them. Yet it was not his height alone that set him apart; it was his air of command; the look of a man who was in control of himself as well as others; a man who thought with his head and never with his heart.

  Refusing to think of him any longer, she went to rejoin Miss Bateman.

  'Would you be very disappointed if we left the party now?' the woman asked as Abby reached her side.

  'Not at all. I'm ready when you are.'

  'Then we'll go down and ask the porter to find us a taxi.'

  'Won't Mr Farrow wonder what's happened to you?'

  'I'll see that a message is sent to him when it's too late for him to come after us.'